Writhing at War

            There are some days where I have this idea in my head that the day is meant for my suffering. I am not sure exactly what causes or triggers this, but I cannot deny its relentless force within me, begging me to bring myself pain, screaming for self torture. It sounds very sadistic, maybe even masochistic, but I assure you it’s not.

            I feel guilty. I feel ashamed I said how I really felt when I wrote an email last night. I feel like I should regret it now, but a large part of me is internally yelling, telling me to not ever regret being honest with how I feel about a situation or person’s actions. The core of my personality is battling with the sickness that has devoured it.

I am nearly positive it has always been my childhood conditioning that has silenced me, and now it washes waves of guilt and shame over me whenever the truth peeks out of my lips.

The mental war that wages within me is fighting itself, and has been for a long time. The oppression of truth is wearing thin, and my self is not sure what to do. What tactic to throw next, because they want to win, but sub-consciously within my sub-conscious they know I’m only fighting myself.

            It never should have been this hard for me to be honest with someone or something, perhaps if I could have been sooner it wouldn’t have flowed out of me like a sea of red anger last night. Now it is extreme, and I’m going to pay for something I didn’t even do past this present.

I cannot be fairly charged with acting a certain way because of whatever conditioning I am coated with, nor can I be fairly charged with behaving a way not desired. The latter should be praised if anything. I am trying, so desperately trying to become something I’m outside forcibly not. One day when I figure out how to make the decision of simply becoming what I must be, then I will see, be, the change I wish to see in the world. And the world is me.

"You survived it when it happened, 

you'll survive when you remember it."